Marvel Novels--Spider-Man

by Neil Kleid

  Peter tightened his grip and pushed his face toward Kraven’s, dancing into range of the overpowering scent of herbs and sweat. “Fight me, damn you!”

  Kraven laughed. “No. There is no reason to fight.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you see?” Kraven asked, grinning through a mouthful of broken teeth, glassy eyes reflecting the blood on his face. “Don’t you understand, Spider-Man?

  “I’ve finally won.”

  SIX

  THUNDER rattled the windows, lightning arced across the sky, and storm clouds gathered on Sergei’s doorstep. Spider-Man stepped away from his enemy, confused.

  He doesn’t understand, Sergei thought. My victory—it will only be complete when he understands.

  Sergei stepped away and began to lift his clothing up and over his chest, stripping away his hard-won second skin—the costume of his prey. “I ‘killed’ you, Spider-Man. Buried you beneath the ground, removed you from the game.”

  Thunder boomed through the roof as Sergei continued to remove the costume. “And then I took your place.”

  “You drugged me, Kraven. Threw me into a state simulating death, but—”

  Sergei stepped out of Spider-Man’s costume and stood naked in the center of the room. He listened to the thunder and imagined it as the percussive sound of a tribal drum, proclaiming his victory to the roiling storm.

  “You could have been dead, had I wished it,” he explained. “Don’t you see? I only allowed you to live so that you could know that I killed you.”

  Sergei dropped the mask onto the floor, atop the discarded uniform, and stood to face his bewildered enemy. His white whale.

  Smiling, he jabbed an accusatory finger at Spider-Man’s chest. “In donning your costume, Spider-Man—in replacing you—I proved myself in all ways your better. Your superior.”

  Sergei turned and moved to the table at the back of the room. Hours earlier, he’d removed the incense and paraphernalia, discarding them along with the prizes by which he’d defined most of his life. He’d kept a small number of mementos—Elephant, Tiger, and some others—but he’d moved them to other sacred areas of his compound.

  This chamber has outlived its usefulness, he thought, glancing around to see whether any trace of his battle with the spiders could be found. Of course it can’t. That happened inside my head. Didn’t it? It didn’t matter. Whether he’d imagined his battle with a nightmarish spider-god—whether his potions and hallucinogenics had altered his perceptions of events—that was in the past. The only things that remained now were Sergei, naked and glorious, transcendent in triumph; Spider-Man, emotionally raw and confused, eager for revenge; and Kraven’s ceremonial garb, laid out on the table for one last show.

  Wind howled from outside, through a shattered window at the rear of the room. A spattering of rain splashed against the floor.

  Sergei cinched the loincloth around his waist, tying it tight, then wrapped both arms with bands of animal skin. He bound his forearms with leather straps to hold the skins in place, then donned his vest and draped the lion’s mane over his shoulders. He’d carried the mane from the African plains many years ago, wearing it to honor the great king from which he’d taken it after days of pitched, vicious battle in the swamps near Ngorongoro Crater. He’d worn it several times since, not as a trophy, but to remind him how to be a king, how to be noble. His heart filled with joy, knowing that his victory would allow him to fulfill that dream: to finally bring nobility, honor, and dignity to the Kravinoff name.

  He turned on his heel, headed for the door on the pads of his feet, and exited the room without a backward glance. Sergei could feel Spider-Man’s eyes boring into his back, the presence of his enemy shadowing his every step.

  The Spider had to understand—that was part of the dance, part of Sergei’s plan. Sergei would show the Truth to the man beneath the mask. And when he understood, when Spider-Man finally saw through the Hunter’s eyes, they would share the Truth. Revel in it. Embrace it.

  And then, Sergei thought, we will both be free.

  He left the room, stepped into the hallway, and moved toward a door on the opposite end of the townhouse. “Follow me, Spider-Man.”

  The wall-crawler hesitated, unwilling to give himself to Sergei’s tutelage. “You expect me to just—”

  “You have special senses that warn you of danger, so you know there is no trap waiting below.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Sergei walked away. “Come with me.”

  Spider-Man hesitated. Then he followed Sergei through the doorway and down the hall.

  He comes. Sergei smiled to himself.

  What else can he do?

  SEVEN

  LONG after Peter had gone, Mary Jane stayed at the window. Her white-knuckled fingers tapped against the windowsill. She watched for far too long, searching for Peter’s crimson-and-cobalt bodysuit swinging through the raindrops.

  He was back. After all the worry, frustration, and tears, Mary Jane had finally had the man she loved back in her arms—but only for an hour. Now he was gone, out of sight, facing danger and possible death.

  Again.

  And here I am, she thought, alone with doubt and fear, uncertain whether he’s coming back or disappearing for another two weeks. Or dying. Here I am, by myself.

  Again.

  Knowing that he was alive, and not the killer whose deeds had been paraded across the front of the Bugle, had filled her with a sense of relief. At least she hadn’t been crazy—her fears and suspicions had been founded. None of that eased her to sleep or soothed the panic yawning in her gut. She was no closer to a decision than before Peter had arrived on her windowsill, bruised and beaten, and fallen into her arms.

  Dragging her heels, MJ moved back to the bed and the heap of clothes strewn across the sheets. She poked around on the floor, running her toe through a pile of dirt. Graveyard mud, no doubt, caked on Peter’s costume when he’d climbed through the window.

  I should clean that. He won’t want to see it when he gets back. If he gets back.

  She pushed it under the bed with her heel.

  You’re stalling, she chided herself. You’re spinning off into tangents and trivialities like you always do, because you’re too afraid to deal with reality.

  She ran her hands through the blouses and jeans, her essentials and her armor from the real, often painful world that threatened to tear her apart. She gazed at the closet, casting her eyes at the clothes she’d left there, and debating whether to empty the closet, or start unpacking.

  She rested a hand on the open suitcase at her feet. She’d started packing almost by reflex. For most of her life, she had abandoned all ties, eschewed drama or emotional burden. That had been the life she led before a well-meaning aunt had introduced her to an ordinary joe named Peter Parker. Back then, when the going got tough, Mary Jane got going.

  But Ordinary Joe turned out to be far from it, and Mary Jane actually turned out to be less superficial and emotionally detached than she’d thought. So here she sat, a suitcase at her feet in a state that could be described as half-full or half-empty—and no closer to a decision than she’d been that morning.

  Do I stay and be the policeman’s widow? Do I tough it out this time and find the inner strength to wait patiently, hoping and praying that my boyfriend makes it home alive?

  Or do I cut and run, as I always have, and let Peter focus his attention where it needs to be—on the city, on his responsibilities, on Peter Parker himself?

  She toyed with the luggage tag, rolling choices around in her head and trying to see the pros and cons of each. If she stayed, her love for Peter—and his love for her—would give MJ the fortitude to weather these moments, nights, or even weeks of not knowing, of waiting for the phone to ring.

  But leaving came so naturally. And despite their history, despite all the secrets that Peter had shared, they were his secrets. His drama. Maybe it would be better to leave before things got worse,
before they got too invested in each other. She had doubts: whether she could cope with his lifestyle, whether she had the inner strength. If she had doubts, the time to address them was now. The time to leave was now, before things got serious.

  But they are serious, aren’t they? I mean, he told me that he’s Spider-Man. I spent two weeks trying to find him. I should stay.

  I thought he was dead, and it nearly killed me. And now it’s happening again. I should go.

  Mary Jane folded and refolded the clothes. As the hours ticked by, she weighed her choices again and again, but came no closer to making a decision.

  EIGHT

  SPIDER-MAN crawled along the ceiling of Kraven’s townhouse, following the Hunter farther into his lair. With every step, Peter waited for a tingling sensation to flare up in the back of his skull, for his spider-sense to warn him of danger. He remembered how Kraven’s dart had played havoc with his powers two weeks earlier, and vowed to employ additional caution. Kraven led him across a long hallway and down a flight of stairs to an ornate dining room.

  Two weeks. Peter repeated it like a mantra, letting it fuel his anger. This strange encounter and Kraven’s collected demeanor had left him uneasy. He didn’t want to lose that feeling of justified rage, that simmering hate. One way or the other, he planned on making Kraven pay for what the man had done. For the two weeks the Hunter had stolen.

  The dining room had been ringed with a series of wall-mounted trophies, each displaying a different sort of game that Kraven had captured and decapitated for sport. Peter moved to the middle of the ceiling, skirting a magnificent chandelier to avoid the poor jungle animals— unwilling to meet the unseeing gaze of their lifeless eyes.

  (dead they’re dead like the spider there is no spider)

  His eyes blurred; for a moment he was back in the tunnel, forcing his way out of the Spider’s bloated corpse. Mad, gleeful laughter filled his ears. He looked up and saw the Spider fitted to a plaque hung on the wall, side-by-side with Spider-Man’s unseeing mask.

  (there is no spider-man I’m a man not a mask)

  Peter had to bite his lip to clear the vision. Despite his quick catnap at Mary Jane’s apartment

  (slept like the dead, yes he did)

  he hadn’t drained Kraven’s drug from his system. The increasing rate of disturbing hallucinations worried him. Either the effects of the dart were getting worse, two weeks later, or else the incense permeating the townhouse had begun to affect his mental well-being.

  Gotta finish this quick, get out of here or I’m

  (or you’re dead you’re dead not your heartbeat you’re two weeks dead)

  He shook his head, shut his eyes, and rubbed them vigorously. His heart fluttered wildly for a moment as he tried to regain his senses. He hesitated on Kraven’s ceiling with his eyes closed and his vision dark.

  (so dark beneath the ground under the earth for two weeks)

  Peter opened his eyes and looked down at Kraven, who stood waiting patiently at the door. Peter swallowed deeply and counted to ten, listening to his heartbeat

  (kraKOOM)

  for a moment before continuing on.

  Kraven beckoned for Spider-Man to follow. Peter scurried across the ceiling into a mid-sized larder stocked with game, produce, and spices.

  Kraven walked around crates and cans, then pushed his hands against the back wall, swinging the stonework aside on a pair of secret hinges. Beyond the pantry, a wide, winding staircase spiraled down into the darkness. Panic gripped Peter’s heart. His body seemed unwilling to venture forth and descend into the cold, black stairwell.

  Kraven smiled and looked back, beckoning once more. He reached out with a steady hand and plucked a candle from one of the pantry’s shelves, then lit it with a nearby match and started down the stairs. The thick, pitch-black of the stairwell welcomed him greedily and swallowed him whole.

  Peter hesitated, fingers flexing against the ceiling as a cold sweat broke out on his back. His heart throbbed against his chest; he forced himself to breathe, in and out, as he gathered the courage to follow Kraven down.

  (come out now)

  Eyes watched him from farther up the tunnel, and he prepared to engage his enemies. The Spider is strong and fearless; the Spider always wins, unlike that coward.

  (I am)

  Unlike the one who can die.

  (I am)

  They waited in the darkness. They waited in the tunnel, where the Spider could be hurt, where they could kill it. Goblin and Rhino. Ned Leeds. Joe Face. They waited to kill the Spider.

  (I am Peter Parker and I’ve got to be free of it)

  “I am a man, not a mask,” Peter said aloud as he edged forward into the stairwell. “I am Spider-Man, Kraven, and I’m coming for you.”

  One flight down, Peter found a pair of lit braziers casting light against rough-hewn stone walls. Kraven was another flight below, slowly padding down with a graceful stride. Peter crawled against the wall, keeping an eye out for an ambush. Kraven continued on, into the bowels of his compound. After six flights and sixteen braziers, they reached the bottom. The stairwell opened into a large, dimly lit cavern.

  There, beneath thick stalactites and resting in the center of a viscous cloud of purple incense, sat two items: Kraven’s elephant, stuffed and mounted on a bronze pedestal, and a narrow metal cage, hanging from the ceiling by a rusty chain. Inside the cage, exhausted and sprawled against a criss-cross of iron bars, lay a familiar form. Clad in a pair of blue jeans, his matted fur singed and filthy, the lone inhabitant of Kraven’s basement clutched his prison with blackened fingers, hooked through bars that flared and sizzled with electricity.

  Kraven stepped toward the cage, grabbing a torch from an elevated firepit, and carried it over to illuminate his guest. Peter leapt from the ceiling and landed on a low stone outcropping, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He stared for a moment, debating whether to believe his eyes. After realizing that this was not another hallucination, Spider-Man gave voice to a simple question—a single word, nothing more:

  “Vermin?”

  NINE

  SERGEI made his way down the stairs, listening to the flaking plaster and crumbling stone underfoot. He walked regally with his hands at his sides and his arms swinging in time to his measured steps. Sergei moved like Lion, proud and confident, as he descended into the pit toward his prisoner and allowed the enemy to follow at his own pace.

  He felt no malice in his heart, nor did he feel the need to boast about his triumph, to cackle with glee into the face of his vanquished foe. He felt serene. Although his face remained stoic, peace radiated from his heart. He felt something in his breast, a warmth he hadn’t known since his days as a cub, back home with his mother and father.

  All these years, Sergei mused, fleeing Russia and suffocating in America. Finding release and honor in the jungles of the world. All this time, and I have never known peace or calm.

  I have never known happiness.

  He fought the urge to smile, to run downstairs and finish the thing. He placed a palm on his chest and felt the measured, even heartbeat throbbing beneath his lion’s mane. As he continued down the staircase, he lit the ancient torches and listened every so often to make sure Spider-Man still nipped at his heels.

  I feel as if I can know it now, he thought. Happiness. It waits nearby. Perhaps outside these very walls, hidden in the patter of falling rain or in the fierce, vibrant drumbeat of the passing thunder.

  Sergei’s foot touched the bottom of the stairs, passing the largest, most ornate brazier in his collection—one that had always been lit, ever since he’d carried his greatest prize below the surface. He lifted a handmade torch from its base and used the brazier’s flames to set it on fire, to illuminate that which waited for Spider-Man below. As the torch sputtered to life, so too did Sergei’s heart glow with passion and purpose. He knew the time had come to finally claim triumph over that which had dominated his life.

  Soon. Peace, happiness, an ending. Soon.r />
  Sergei moved toward the cage, swinging wide his torch to provide Spider-Man with a clear, unobstructed view. He wanted to show the man in the mask what he, Sergei Kravinoff—once Kraven the Hunter, once the Spider—had done.

  Spider-Man vaulted from the ceiling and landed on a small ledge above the cage, crouched and ready to pounce. “Vermin?” he asked, as if unable to believe his eyes.

  Sergei chuckled long and low as he circled the electrified cage.

  “Yes,” he replied, “your old foe, Vermin. The newspapers have been calling him the Cannibal Killer.”

  Sergei crouched before Vermin’s face, peering into the cage to see whether the rat-man was still alive. The way Vermin hung against the bars, his head lolling below his shoulders, Sergei couldn’t be sure. It hardly mattered: He had caught his prize, won his victory. At this point, Vermin was nothing more than another animal mounted on his wall.

  Sergei turned back to Spider-Man. “We know what Vermin really is, don’t we? The perfect fusion of man and animal. A vile, tormented, beautiful beast.” He held the torch aloft, allowing the light to penetrate the darkness around Vermin’s face and show Spider-Man his broken trophy. “A beast that I have beaten and captured.”

  Thunder roared above the townhouse—muffled and distant in Sergei’s dungeon, but loud enough to rattle them both. Loud enough to startle the Spider and plant a sliver of unease in Sergei’s heart.

  No, he said to himself. No, happiness waits. You hear it in the rain. You know it by the clarion call of the thunder.

  He moved closer to Vermin, tried to peer into the creature’s soul, if it lingered still. Vermin slowly opened his eyes and met Sergei’s gaze. Vermin flinched, moving his head to one side. He released the bars in a panicked flurry of scalded fur and ringing metal.

  Spider-Man dropped to the floor and stepped forward toward the caged, pathetic creature.

  “I could feel him out there, Spider-Man,” Sergei continued. “I touched Vermin’s soul, and I knew what role he had to play in our little game.”